


Joystick Brusies

by thecannabiskid



Category: Mr. Robot - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Mr. Robot is trying his hardest okay for fucks sake, super fun facts about pac-man from the ever reliable Wikipedia, there's really no plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 09:56:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4517484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecannabiskid/pseuds/thecannabiskid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elliot really needs to stop going to the arcade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Joystick Brusies

**Author's Note:**

> Ur gonna learn so much about Pac-Man !!!!!

****

                Shayla had gotten high, knocked on his door, and told him she was going to walk Flipper. He had spaced on walking her. “Be careful, Shayla, please.” She waves him off.

                “I’m meeting your blonde friend, I could use some sunshine.” The smile on her face is bright. Angela. Shayla calls her Sunshine. He saw hickies on her neck after she had been out with Angela one day and he kept to himself. Shayla knew he saw them. She said it was her street name. He drug name. Sunshine. Like how kids come up with codenames for drugs. Pizza. Cobbler. Raspberry pie. He had smiled at that one. Angela seems happy. He cares about that. Her happiness. Shayla’s happiness. They both deserve happiness.

He doesn’t close his door until he hears her head down the stairs. He watches out the window. Ever since Vera was in her apartment he’s been trying to keep an eye on her.

                He has nothing to do. He talks to Qwerty, they watch an old episode of The X-Files and he can’t stand being cooped up in the house anymore. He showers, cleans up, he thinks about the warning from Mr. Robot. Fuck. He gets dressed and heads out.

                He naps on the subway. Pulls his hood up and just sleeps. “Hey kiddo,” he jumps, looks around a little confused. “Hey, relax, just me.” Mr. Robot smiles at him. “I know I specifically told you not to come unless I told you.” He blinks a few times. “You think you’re dreaming?” His voice is low and Elliot nods slowly, brows furrowed and his eyes squinted against the light. No one else is in this car. It has to be a dream. He touches him. His hand goes right through his shoulder and Elliot jolts awake.

                No one pays him any attention and he flits through the slew of people as he gets off the subway and heads towards the hideout. He’s been thinking about names for the place. Hideout sounds lame but so does base. He pushes the door open. _Should_ he be here? He steps inside. Empty. He wanders, heads towards the back of the building and looks over the concession stand. Mr. Robot’s asleep on the floor. “You know,” Elliot drawls and it wakes Mr. Robot up. “If you didn’t have a place to live you could have said so.” He assumes he doesn’t. Ever since he saw him asking for change. But he’s crazy so who knows.

                “I do,” Mr. Robot yawns. “I was working. It’s always good to know your limits, Elliot.” He wonders what it would be like to wake up next to him. Weird? It could be nice. He likes to stretch out in bed when he sleeps so he’s not sure. “-liot,” he snaps back to reality and Mr. Robot gives him a look.

                “Sorry.”

                “You really can’t wander off while people are speaking to you, kid.” Elliot moves around the counter, drops his backpack and gets on his knees.

                “Sorry.” He whispers and Mr. Robot shifts on his side and sighs.

                “You interrupted my nap. Come on. You look exhausted.” He isn’t getting another option. He takes off his jacket, rolls it up and lies down, rests his head on it and Mr. Robot closes his eyes.

                This is weird. It’s weird right? Is he making it weird? He has a habit of doing that. He watches Mr. Robot. Would he be considered his employer? Isn’t this against some kind of rule? “Elliot, Christ kiddo, I say this as politely as I can, can you _please_ shut up.” He raises his voice at the end. Elliot stares at him. Was he speaking? He…. He doesn’t know.

                “Sorry.” Mr. Robot moves slowly, Elliot’s almost positive he does it so he doesn’t spook him. He still jumps when Mr. Robot touches his shoulder. He pulls him closer. He’s stiff. He can’t relax and Mr. Robot is murmuring about the creator of the skeeball machine. His breath comes out in short bursts. It’s hard to concentrate. “Elliot.” Warm lips on his neck. He lets out a startled breath.

                “I’m not comfortable.” He says it slowly and Mr. Robot leans away from him. Fuck. Did he take that the wrong wa-

                “Get comfortable.” He says and Elliot’s body shuts down. He feels like an old computer. He needs a reboot every five minutes when he’s near him. Mr. Robot watches him.

                They’ve never done this. Does he want this sweetness added to whatever it is they do? Whatever this is? He fucked him in an alley. This is _very_ different. This is…. Nice? Does he want this? Does Mr. Robot want this? “Okay.” Fuck. He can do this, right? Sure. He swallows hard, lies on his stomach and rests his head against Mr. Robot’s shoulder.

                “Yeah, that can’t be comfortable.” Mr. Robot murmurs and Elliot goes to speak and stops.

                “Not really.”

                “Kid,” there’s a slight annoyance to his tone and he’s moving Elliot. Elliot winces and Mr. Robot freezes. “You okay?”

                “Bruised my ass.” He says flatly and Mr. Robot snorts.

                “How did you manage that?”

                “Slipped in the shower. “  He gets a look from the other that borders _how are you not dead_ and amused. He moves Elliot so he’s got his head resting on his chest. It’s nice, Elliot thinks. This is nice. He deserves this. He deserves comfort. God he smells good. Fuck. Shut up. Mr. Robot runs a hand through Elliot’s hair and he tenses up.

                “Relax, kid,” he breathes and it takes him a minute to settle back down. Okay. This is okay. He focuses on the sound of Mr. Robot’s breathing. The weight of the hand aimlessly running through his hair. He wonders if he’d like having his hair pulled. Christ. He’s got to stop thinking. He’s got to shut down. He focuses on his heartbeat. It doesn’t take him long to drift off.

 

                “Kid, wake up.”

                “Shut up,” he mutters and Mr. Robot laughs.

                “Elliot,” he gives his shoulder a squeeze, “come on kiddo,” he waits. “Elliot you gotta move.” No response. Mr. Robot moves him, slowly; the kid can sleep like the dead. He’s got this ridiculously peaceful look on his face and it’s the first time he’s seen the kid not look like he’s going to have a mental breakdown. He steps over him carefully, he’s gotta piss.

                Elliot wakes up forty minutes later in a panic. Fuck. Where’s Mr. Robot? His back hurts. He twists and gets on his knees, stands up slowly. “You sleep like a rock, kid.” Mr. Robot says and he’s blinking a few times, digs the palms of his hands into his eyes. When he blinks the stars away Mr. Robot is on the other side of the counter.

                “Hello.” Elliot says and he’s pretty sure he’s dreaming. He grabs at Mr. Robot’s shirt. His hand doesn’t go through him like the last dream.

                “You’re gonna stretch it out, Elliot, this is one of my favourite shirts.” He leans closer to avoid any serious damage to his shirt and Elliot looks confused before he kisses him. “Kid, you gotta let go.” Mr. Robot mumbles against his lips and Elliot does, slowly, he’s afraid Mr. Robot is going to disappear.  He doesn’t. When he pulls back Mr. Robot is climbing over the counter, sits on the edge and Elliot stares at him. Amused.

                “Coulda walked around the counter.”

                “Thinking outside the box, Elliot, is the key to leading a life that is never dull.”

                “Woulda been easier. You sound winded.”  He smiles and Mr. Robot shakes his head. Okay. Sure. He’s a little winded. Elliot walks around the counter. “Easy.” He says pointedly. He gets an annoyed look from Mr. Robot. He ignores it. Pulls his phone from his pocket. Fuck. He’s been here for several hours.

                “You got somewhere to be?”

                “Yeah, I….” He’s got a text from Shayla. It’s a picture of her and Angela. They’re both high. “Guess not.” He says and he shoves his phone back into his pocket.

                “You looked bummed out, kid.” His body lurches away from Mr. Robot’s hand when he realizes he’s about to pat him. He gets a look. “No touching,” he nods and Elliot doesn’t say a word.

                He coaxes him into playing a game of Pac-Man before he leaves. “You know,” Mr. Robot starts, presses a quarter into the machine and Elliot stands next to him. “Pac-Man is one of the highest-grossing video games of all time.”  Elliot gives him a look. “They changed the name from Puck-Man to Pac-man to avoid vandalism.”

                “Why do you know this?” Elliot asks and Mr. Robot shrugs, the whomp, whomp, whomp of Pac-Man eating echoes in his ears.

                “Kid. Your turn.” He snaps his fingers and Elliot looks at him. “Your. Turn.” Elliot nods and blinks at the screen. He used to play this with Angela. They had a joystick box that hooked up to the TV. They’d get high.  Angela would mock the Pac-Man chomp noise until they both were in hysterics.

                He’s two levels in when Mr. Robot starts to speak. “You know, in the 80’s this game was a bigger hit in America than Japan.” Elliot jumps when Mr. Robot’s hands skirt up his sides.

                “You’re cheating.” Elliot says flatly. He finishes level two. “Are you worried I’ll beat your score?” Teasing is new to him. He can’t keep his mouth shut.

                “Don’t get cocky, kiddo, I grew up playing this game.” He leans into Elliot and Elliot can feel his own pulse quicken.

                “Okay.” He blows through the next level with ease and Mr. Robot’s hands are getting bolder, resting low on Elliot’s hips and the shiver that goes through Elliot when his lips touch his neck is so welcomed. He’s halfway through beating level four when Mr. Robot’s hand finds its way into Elliot’s pants. “Do you know who created skeeball, Elliot?” He murmurs and his fingers slide down his length.

                “Fucking cheater,” Elliot grinds out and he loses a life, hips twitch into the touch and Mr. Robot’s laugh is breathy and Elliot hates him.

                He loses another life and Mr. Robot rests his chin on Elliot’s shoulder. “Maybe if you had better focus,” Mr. Robot hums. What a dick. Elliot has one life left and he dies.

                “Fuck,” he murmurs and Mr. Robot nips Elliot’s earlobe and his knees feel weak.

                “Gonna fuck you against the machine, okay?” Elliot’s breathing stutters and he nods quickly, lets out a needy _okay._ He told himself he would stop doing this. He’s changing addictions. Morphine to sex. His pants are down and he flinches. “Shh,” Mr. Robot soothes a hand down his back.

                “Careful,” Elliot mumbles and Mr. Robot pulls Elliot’s briefs down slow.

                “Fucking Christ, Elliot,” he breathes, he’s got the biggest bruise he’s ever seen. It curves over the sides of his ass, spreads to his tailbone. How is he even walking around hurt like this? He crouches down and Elliot immediately tenses up.

                “What-what are you doing?” He feels the press of lips on his lower back, small kisses just skirting the edges of the bruise.

                “You have got to be more careful.” Elliot can’t pin his tone. Is it caring? It sounds more scolding. Angela would tell him to text her when he got home. Her voice held the same tone. Caring. A slight edge of reprimand because he would probably forget. When Shayla says promise me. Caring. The same edge when he doesn’t respond the first time. His eyes sting. Fuck. Is he going to cry? He takes in a shaky breath. He doesn’t like the way his heart is beating. Mr. Robot stands up and he’s thanking some higher power because he doesn’t acknowledge the hitch in his breathing. Thankful.

                Warm fingers travel gently over the length of the bruise. He hadn’t bothered to look at it. Didn’t need to panic over something like that. It’s large, from what he can feel as Mr. Robot’s fingers trace left to right. He sighs and there’s a click of a cap. Familiar. The cold press of lube coated fingers and he leans hard into the machine. 

                He loves this part. The stretch. The way Mr. Robot’s lips never leave his neck. The way he bites him when he presses a second finger in. A distraction. It’s addictive. He doesn’t think he’d enjoy this, enjoy fucking, if he was in his own bed. Not after the alley incident.

                “Elliot, you’re mumbling,” Mr. Robot murmurs and he is. He hadn’t realized it. Fuck,

                “M’sorry,” he breathes and then the fingers are gone and the rip of foil rings in his ears. Again. This is happening again. Angela would never believe him if he ever told her. Sex in public places. Sex where anyone could walk in on them. Right through the door. He jumps at the press of Mr. Robot’s cock.

                “Stay with me, kiddo,” his voice is a warning. What happens if he drifts off? Does this all stop? The weird way his heart beats? The way his eyes constantly flick down to watch the way his lips curve around words when he speaks? Does the flinching start again? He can’t remember the last time someone touched him like this. The morphine had dulled him. Made it easier. Without it is like rebuilding trust. “-liot, kid, if you can’t focus we stop.” Elliot blinks. He’d be more believable if he wasn’t balls deep in his ass.

                “Sorry,” he feels full. “I am focused.” He says it slowly and the bright light from the Pac-man game is blinding. His pupils must be dilated. He lets his head drop between his shoulders, the joystick of the game digs into his chest and Mr. Robot pulls out slowly, gets a stuttered breath from Elliot when the head of his dick catches against the rim of his hole.

                “You kn-“

                “Please don’t tell me about the creator of skeeball,” Elliot interrupts and he’s pressing back. Encouragement. Silent.

                “You should feel lucky,” Mr. Robot gives a sharp thrust forward. “People love stuff like that.”

                “No. Not now. Not in this kind of…. Situation.” He tries to keep his voice even. Christ. He feels like he’s being choked when Mr. Robot starts laughing. He leans into Elliot, fucks him slow. _Agonizing_ , is the word that comes to Elliot’s mind.

                Mr. Robot focuses on his neck, bites hard enough that Elliot whines, soothes over the mark with his tongue and he’s distracted long enough that he doesn’t feel Mr. Robot speed up. He does feel a hard thrust nail his prostate and the bruising on his ass is electric, painful, and color bursts behind his eyes. Mr. Robot fucks him slow again, presses against the nerves with every thrust and he’s moving to stroke him.

                Maybe it’s because he didn’t do much with his dick growing up, or the fact that he was too terrified to give himself any form of pleasure but when Mr. Robot touches him he questions himself. He could have had this growing up. Could have allowed himself to have this. He didn’t have to constantly punish himself. Is he punishing himself now? Is he? Fuck, he’s close. “Close,” he chokes out. Not elegant. Fuck he drooled on the machine a little. He focuses on Mr. Robot’s hand, the way the damp fabric of his briefs stick against his cock. Mr. Robot slides his hand into the front of his briefs. Skin on skin. It’s intoxicating.

                It’s different this time. He sees _stars_. Knuckle white grip on the machine as he cums. Mr. Robot doesn’t stop stroking him. Fuck. Fuck. Mr. Robot’s hips still and Elliot can _feel_ his cock pulsing as he climaxes. Release. He doesn’t pull out immediately. Trails lovebites up and down his neck until Elliot’s knees wobble.

                Mr. Robot cleans him up. Helps him to the bathroom in the back of the arcade and Elliot leans against the wall. God, he can barely stay awake. What’s different this time? Why is his stomach in a knot? Does Mr. Robot feel that way? He’s nodding off. “Let me help you home kiddo.”  He says it slowly because Elliot’s got this dazed look on his face. He gets a nod. “Come on kid,” his voice is low and Elliot follows him out of the arcade. It’s already dark outside.

                The subway is crowded; he’s got Elliot close to him. He’s leaning into him hard and the kid has to be exhausted, he’s usually very distant. Doesn’t like the physical contact. He’s glad he showed up. He looks over at him, peaceful. The have to catch one more subway after this stop and he feels bad that he has to wake him up. “Kiddo,” he pats Elliot’s thigh and the kid jolts awake.

                “Yeah?” He sounds panicked.

                “We gotta get off.” Elliot yawns, rubs his eyes and stands up. He follows Mr. Robot.

                The walk to his apartment is long. He doesn’t talk. Mr. Robot stays close to him. Closer than normal. This isn’t normal. Fuck. “Could have made it on my own.” He says and Mr. Robot is lighting up a cigarette.

                “Kid,” he starts and he’s handing the smoke to Elliot who takes it, takes a pull. His hands are shaking. “You’re a mess.” He’s smiling. That’s actually kind of rude.

                “M’fine.” He goes to speak again but Mr. Robot cuts him off.

                “Don’t argue, Elliot.” Mr. Robot says firmly and Elliot smokes half the cigarette and Mr. Robot finishes it.

                He’s fine. He isn’t a mess. Maybe a little on edge since the morphine is gone. “I’m not a mess.” He grumbles and Mr. Robot practically shoves Elliot into the next alley they pass. Crowds him against the bricks and Elliot can’t breathe. Fuck. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t half hard. Just like last Saturday in the alley.  The guys fucken crazy and it puts Elliot on an edge that doesn’t cause panic but melts it away. Mr. Robot kisses him slow and Elliot’s eyes roll shut as he relaxes into it. Maybe it’s just adrenaline. That sounds saner.

                “The first thing that went through your head was what happened last Saturday,” Elliot swallows hard. “You’re a mess kid.”

                “I….” He frowns, pushes his shoulders back. “I like what I like.” He sounds nervous. Fuck. He _is_ nervous. Mr. Robot raises an eyebrow at him.

                “Alright kid.” Elliot slides away from Mr. Robot and the other follows him. He is a mess. God he’s really fucked up.

                “Okay.” Elliot says slowly when they get to his apartment.

                “You live in a really shitty part of town.” Mr. Robot says and Elliot ignores it. He knows. Angela tells him whenever she comes over to get high and watch Back to the Future II. “You can make it up on your own, right?” Since when did he worry about Elliot? Since when did he start caring more than normal?

                “Yeah.” Elliot goes to ask Mr. Robot something. Do you want to come up? I can make coffee? Tea? He opens and closes his mouth several times and freezes up when Mr. Robot pulls him in for a hug. No warning. Fuck. What does he do with his arms? He’s screwed. Shit. Damn. Fuck. It’s awkward but he means well.

                “Elliot, kid,” he says it firmly and Elliot nods. “Be more careful.” Mr. Robot kisses the side of his face. His stomach feels weird. “I won’t hug you again without a warning,” he says and a wave of relief washes over Elliot. Thank God. Considerate. He’s sure he’ll slip up.

                “Di-did you wanna come up?” Mr. Robot shakes his head and man, that stings. He swallows. Nods. Stops nodding. Nods again.

                “Not tonight kiddo,” and Elliot kisses him. Shaky hands on Mr. Robot’s face and he pulls back after a minute. “You make an excellent case,” Elliot shivers. His voice is rough and low, it rubs Elliot the wrong way and the right way at the same time. It’s like getting a static shock when you don’t expect it. “I’ll see you soon,” his lips brush against Elliot’s with each word. He feels fucked up.

                “Yeah. Okay.” He doesn’t move.

                “Elliot, go.” He takes a step back, heads up the steps and he’s smiling. Fuck.

               

                “Where have you been all day?” Shayla asks and Elliot shrugs.

                “Sorry,” Angela’s in her bed. She must have smoked too much. He takes Flipper’s leash.

                “Elliot, seriously, where were you?”

                “Sorry, Shayla.” She lets out an annoyed sigh. “I’m sorry.” She waves him off.

                He cleans up. Showers. He’ll have to do laundry.

                There’s a bruise on his chest, circular. From the joystick of the game. Another reminder.

                “Flipper,” Elliot murmurs, pats the empty space on his bed and she’s up in an instant. It’s comforting. Having her. He pets her as she settles down. “Maybe he’s right.” He’s yawning. What if he is right? What if he is a mess? He doesn’t see it. He feels okay. He’s okay. The joystick bruise proves nothing. He’s fine. He pets Flipper until he falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Look at that it's longer this time. Sorry it took so long, I had work.  
> As always you can follow me on tumblr @ moira-af


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